I don't know why I feel so low, or rather I know only too well. But I really do fight it. To break it down is fighting it. I don't mean to drag you into my pit of doom. I do sometimes need a hand up from it.

At least I’ve stopped bursting into tears about it, at least I’m getting to feel more angry and righteous and strong and in charge of things. My stomach still hurts, and I still feel pretty dreadful, but I’m better, much more removed, and very grateful.

I am doubly furious and disgusted now. I can’t stand to think about you or us or what just happened. I can’t believe you’re just going to go out to your party like that’s important to you.

God how I wish I could talk to you sometimes.

I hate the way things are now, I hate the way we act about each other. I just can’t stand it. It’s so horrible and stiff and fake, and I’m so full of resentment and anger and I can’t tell if it belongs to you or if I just put it there.

It's been two weeks since I put down the sign.

What's new? Oh, nothing. Just a regular Tuesday. The President contradicts his staff's lies about his brazen acts of treason, as per usual. AND THAT WAS JUST THE MORNING.

The wind ripped my sign from my hands this morning and blew it across the sidewalk. I retrieved it, but it's looking damaged, and I refuse to walk around with a damaged sign, because I believe it limits my credibility. Today, the swan sang for Sign #3.

I need to write about so many things: Carrying the Paul Ryan sign for the day on Tuesday, and the reactions it provoked; how incredibly specifically informed people are right now, how much they want to express their incredulity over the brazenness of the corruption and how long it's taking to prosecute.

Waiting for the subway today, I have the most contentious two minute conversation I've had in a while. The guy is older, probably in his early 60s, thick accent of indeterminable origin, with brown skin, and he shakes his head at me when he sees me coming, so I stop to chat.